


Take one for the team

by bluebells



Series: Ceasefire [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: #g2gfast, Age Difference, Humour, M/M, Mission Statements, Sensory Overload, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: Lúcio may have been the one who started this, but Akande is the one keeping him here.





	Take one for the team

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AyuDev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyuDev/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: “I’m going to be late because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

In Lúcio’s opinion, Doomfist lives up to his archetype of a wealthy warlord: he loves the high life, lives it well, and is used to getting what he wants.

He’ll judge the guy when he’s done reaping the benefits for himself.

“Hurry up, old man,” Lúcio mutters, leaning up on his elbows among the silken duvet. Its thread count is probably higher than his bank balance, in this penthouse suite that could house his entire favela. "I'm going to be late because you can't keep it in your pants."

Kneeling between his spread thighs, Doomfist – “Akande” arches an eyebrow at him, unimpressed and… frustratingly unaffected for the gently squirming weight of Lúcio on his cock.

Names change when you break into a high-rise and get naked with the enemy. Akande hasn’t refuted him yet, so “Akande” is the name that sticks. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Akande manages to avoid calling him anything at all.

But he really is going to be late. The briefing would start in an hour back at base. Not that Akande knows that. Probably. Hopefully.

Lúcio may have been the one who started this, but Akande is the one keeping him here.

“That’s the problem with your generation,” Akande shakes his head, sliding a hand up the sweat-sheen skin of the medic’s thigh. Lúcio shivers, gut tightening when those fingers curl into the soft juncture of his inner thigh. “You rush. Never finish what you start. Always needing to be _first._ ”

The hips beneath Lúcio roll up hard where Akande’s already buried so deep. It shoves another gasping cry from his lungs as the vice-like strength holds his thighs firm, pull him down against the throbbing pressure of Akande bearing him open. And holding him there still. Heart pounding, burning, wide and so… _fucking—_

“Fu-uu- _ungh_ ,” Lúcio groans, head falling back. His elbows slide out from beneath him and his back hits the sheets. “Fu-uu-uu-ucking hell,” he grinds out, throwing a hand over his eyes, knuckles dragging over his brow. His pulse pounds in his ears. Half an hour and he still isn’t used to this, mutters, “I feel like I have an arm up my ass.”

He chooses to ignore the snorted laugh from between his thighs.

“Relax,” Akande entreats in that deep, smooth _spread your legs_ voice that got Lúcio into this situation in the first place, and Lúcio, whimpering, does _not_ relax.

Akande is so stupidly huge, it puts phantom pressure on his lungs. Lúcio’s body is poised so carefully, breaths high and shallow, he feels like he’s waiting for bomb disposal.

Well, this is what happens when you get what you wish for.

Hana warned him. Sombra warned him. Everyone tried to warn him.

He dissolves into laughter as the ridiculousness of the situation starts bearing down on him – all this effort, spending his guile and charm for Talon’s deadliest (arguably, there’s still something to be said for a walking, talking apparition of death), just to choke around the head. He knows Akande isn’t even in all the way. He looked – and just about lost his breath again.

Fingers dig sharply into his thigh and Akande’s hips jerk with a short, deep moan in his chest that makes Lúcio’s thighs tense, his body grow still once more. His mouth waters. Fuck, he needs a drink.

“Try not to move,” Akande says carefully, and his expression is tensed in concentration when Lúcio lifts his hand to see.

Akande’s troubled frown restores some of his confidence, and his hands fall away to the sheets.

“Hey, you called out my generation,” Lúcio throws back. “I have to see this through now. Gotta represent.”

Akande’s eyes lift from his thighs, the weight of his attention dragging up Lúcio’s heaving chest, over the drying trails of saliva, sweat and cum. Lúcio is a fucking mess and he’s lucky if he makes it out of this alive. In a short half hour, he’s learned this man, he knows the smugness curling at the corner of his mouth is both good and bad news for him. He knows Akande is feeding from his sensory overload, his writhing delirium, and the fact that he’s in serious trouble once he gets back to his team.

Soldier 76 is going to have his ass.

If there’s anything left of it once they’re done.

It’s intense – and embarrassing how Akande chooses to look right into his eyes from this position. In the space between their shared breaths and the mechanised hum of the air conditioning in the walls, Akande waits and watches, throbbing an infuriating calm inside him as his thumb draws idle circles on the sensitive skin of Lúcio’s hip.

As his breaths quiet and Akande remains unmoving, Lúcio realises with startling clarity that the other man will wait as long as it takes until… until what?

He reins his breaths, body shuddering as he forces his lungs to calm, drawing air deep and slow. Akande's chest rises and Lúcio breathes with him, controlled in, slowly out, again; a feedback loop that closes and deepens on each inhale, Akande's eyes gently smouldering. Lúcio doesn't look away, his free hand releases its fistful of the duvet and his thighs relax from their clamp around Akande’s waist.

The smirk on Akande’s face grows. “You’re learning. Good. You see, some things…” Lúcio watches with trepidation as the man rises to kneel, stalking up the bed with hands against Lúcio’s sides until he’s crowding himself close, shoulders rolling with a ripple of muscle, “Are worth taking the time.”

Lúcio’s hips are tipped up, the stretch in his thighs aches anew, and the mouth-watering scent of Akande’s sweat fills his nose as the man lowers himself, the full, delicious weight of him pressed against Lúcio’s shivering frame for one blissful, mind-altering moment.

“I will teach you a lesson in patience,” Akande's fingers curl behind his neck.

And Lúcio isn’t thinking about the briefing anymore, the warnings, the mission, or even the intelligence he promised to bring back (why did anyone believe his plan in the first place?). He almost doesn’t register the iron grip taking hold of his thigh for the voice that burns in his ear.

“Breathe.”

And then Akande is moving, Lúcio is arching, crying out and – yeah, breathing.

What is air, anyway?

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm subconsciously edging Akande and he's not allowed to come until he's in an actual plot.


End file.
